


call me if you need me

by voodoochild



Series: Challenge on Infinite Earths [6]
Category: The Hour
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Supernatural, F/M, Lamiae, Snakes, Telepathy, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 23:20:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The urban fantasy AU - Lix is a snake goddess, Randall is a telepath, and it's metastasized.</p>
            </blockquote>





	call me if you need me

**Author's Note:**

> This topic was way too perfect to resist, so I’m debuting a bit of the urban fantasy AU I’ve been working on. This is the one where Lix is a lamia, a mythical snake goddess, and Randall is a telepath - everyone else is something supernatural in origin as well - and they live in a hotel owned by Hector and occasionally help-the-helpless. The backstory is huge with this one, and I’m four chapters into an actualfax novel-length story for them I’m hoping to use as a NaNoWriMo springboard. This is a little slice-of-life bit from the third chapter that I played around with for this challenge, though I chickened out with the bloodplay sex that follows. Sorry?
> 
> Trigger warning: Discussion of suicidal themes.

It’s worse than usual, today.

"FUCKING ARSENAL!"/"Did Petunia take out the crumble for tonight? I should text her."/"Christ, not again, not another sodding audit."/"Are those even real? Ugh, you can see her ribs too."/"Don’t look like he’s been with a lust demon."/"Can’t fucking stand it anymore I should jump ‘cause no one will miss me."/"Hate her hate her hate her fucking bitch."/"Did he want regular sugar or brown sugar?"

Randall regrets many things from the 60’s, but contributing to the development of the iso-room is not one of them. Accepting an interview request from the Guardian because the editor’s been a colleague since ‘65 is, however. Christ, his migraine could eat Wales.

It’s not even that comparatively bad a day; some stray suicidal thoughts from a boy in Hyde Park, secondhand intense anger and elation from a football match, a very unpleasant reporter for the Mail harassing him for a quote. Not too different from any other day. But he’d woken up with a secondhand migraine from Bel, and everything had just compounded atop that. And then he’d begun craving a cigar due to the Guardian journalist, which was probably a sign. He’d cut the interview short and taken a taxi home instead of the Tube, his head pounding and a nauseous feeling in his stomach.

The iso-room is cool, blank. Not as powerful as Bel’s, but then again, he can block out a lot of psi-waves himself, having had 90-odd years more practice than she’s had. He could go without, but the room makes him feel as if he’s breathing pure, clean air again. 

He’s had it set up like a miniature flat. Telly, couch that converts to a bed, an overstuffed armchair that he’d ordered all the way from Cairo because he’s never found one like it anywhere else, small fridge with bottles of that wheat beer from Berlin, not a single item in the room touched by anyone but him. Usually a precaution like that is reserved for empaths (Bel, for example, has the same in both her flat and her room), but it helps cut down on the psychic residue.

He activates the keypad, and the sensation of someone else having touched it explodes behind his eyes. He can only keep his calm because he recognizes the signature - red/gold/dark/forever, Lix’s imprint. The door slides open, and he’s greeted with wave after wave of miserable lamia.

"I’m sorry," she keens, half in his head and half aloud. "I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be here when you don’t go around invading my den, but I can’t very well use Bel’s, and you’re the only other one in the hotel with one, and it hurts-"

He sends over a bit of mental-alarm, is she all right, what’s wrong? Her response is confused, and he sighs. Sits carefully across from her on the sofa, kicking his shoes off and shrugging out of his jacket. She’s in her snake form, curled around one of the pillows on the bed, shivering and trying desperately not to shred the blanket. Which really, is a complete lost cause, he never buys expensive bedding for precisely that reason.

"It’s all right, I’ll get a new blanket. What’s got you all the way up on this floor, sweetheart?"

Lix uncoils, and he can see the problem. She’s in the middle of her shedding, scales shifting loose and dry across her hips and upper tail, bright golden color faded to a dull yellowish red. Lamiae only shed once every year, but it gets more painful with age and with only three other exceptions, Lix is the oldest living lamia in the world. 2700, give or take, so her sheddings take longer and cause her more pain. She’d let him feel it, once, a dozen years ago or so - it felt like being run through a cheese grater inside and out.

"I can’t see, half of my body is itching, and my nest is too cold," she says, and if it’s half a whine, he forgives her. 

"It’s probably colder in here."

"No, the heater’s broken completely, and it won’t be fixed because I can’t stand anyone near me. I’m *starving*, I nearly ate Freddie again."

He shouldn’t laugh. It’s not remotely funny, and he absolutely should not laugh, except he does, because the ridiculous boy finds a way to nearly get eaten every second Tuesday. It isn’t that Freddie’s not bright. Christ, far from it, he just tends to ignore verbal warnings because he’s too focused on info clouds or texts or binary.

Randall reaches out, runs telepathic nails down her tail to make her relax, try and soothe the itch. She makes that shivering, hissing purr that means ‘oh, do that again’, and begins shredding the blanket. “I’ll fix your heater, make sure there are some nice rough surfaces for you to rub against. Only if you confine your shredding to my blankets, though, I like those pillows.”

"Spoilsport," she pouts, claws dragging through the wool. "Oh, this is intolerable, I haven’t even whited-out yet." And she’s right, her eyes are mostly clear, despite the reddening of the scales on her belly. She growls, shifting and stretching, stops when she looks at him with his arms wrapped around himself. "Darling, I’m sorry for complaining, you look ready to pass out. What happened?"

If he ever needed proof of her self-control, it’s now. She’s miserable and uncomfortable and he can feel the hunger pouring off her in a near-deluge, but she’s keeping herself very carefully coiled on the bed and asking about his day. He kicks his feet up onto the arm of the sofa, continues his mental scratching of her scales, watching her sigh and rest her chin on the pillow.

"Migraine. Just too many people at once. Come to think of it, detouring past Stamford Bridge during the Arsenal match was probably a bad idea."

"Sleep, then," she says, "I’ll try and keep my barriers up."

"Wake me in an hour? I’ll ring down for some dinner and after I’ve eaten, you can have yours."

Her fangs glint out from under her lips, and she methodically shreds another piece of blanket. Her eyes have gone golden, which is not precisely germane to his desire to sleep; his heart always begins pounding whenever he sees her eyes in snake form. 

"Oh, you *wicked* man," she purrs. "Telling me you’re going to let me feed off you, but I have to wait."

"[Patience is a virtue,]" he sends, pushing the button to turn the sofa into a recliner and stretching out. "[And you’ll be very cross if you drain me and I lose consciousness, because then who’s going to fix your heater?]"

Her response is a bit of astonishingly inventive, vulgar Latin, and he snickers under his breath as he falls asleep.


End file.
